THE  WAGGON 
AND  THE  STAR 


BY 

MARY  SINTON  LEITCH 


[BRARY 


/HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  :FORNIA 


LOSANGE   ES 


The  tf^aggon  and  the  Star 


The 
Waggon  and  the  Star 


By 
MARY  SINTON  LEITCH 


"  Hitch  your  waggon  to  o  star  " 

Emerson 


BOSTON 
B.  J.  BRIMMER  COMPANY 

1922 


PRINTED   IN  THE   UNITED   STATES  OF   AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
B.  J.  BRIMMER  COMPANY 


AMBROSE  PRESS.  INC. 
Norwood,   Mass. 


The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

'  Twos  fine  for  Emerson  to  say 
Inspiring  things,  I  know, 
But  stars  are  oh  so  far  away, 
And  waggons  very  slow. 

Mine  rumbles  clumsily  along 
On  earth,  altho  afar 
'Tis  held  by  silver  ropes  of  song 
Firmly  to  a  star. 


6oor"»HN'~: 
**O  /  i  O 


TO  "HIMSELF" 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  the  permission,  courteously  given,  to 
reprint  poems  included  in  this  book,  the 
author  desires  to  thank  the  editors  and  pro 
prietors  of  Harper's  Magazine,  Poet  Lore,  Con 
temporary  Verse,  The  Personalist,  The  Lyric, 
The  Boston  Evening  Transcript  and  The  Lyric 
West.  Several  of  the  poems  have  appeared  in 
William  Stanley  Braithwaite's  Anthology  of 
Magazine  Verse. 


CONTENTS 

Proem  :  The  Poet 1 

The  River 2 

An  Egoist  at  Lynnhaven 3 

The  Pagan 4 

Shadows 5 

On  Being  Advised  to  Fill  in  My  Swamp     .  7 

To  My  Father 8 

Crusaders 10 

The  Owl 11 

The  Price 12 

The  Secret 14 

The  Dead  Thrush 15 

Sun-Rise 16 

The  Magic  Gown 17 

The  Old  Men 20 

A  Husband  to  a  Wife 21 

On  Being  Told  That  My  Child  Resembles 

Me 22 

One  Rose 23 

The  Flower 24 

Yesterday,  To-day  and  To-morrow     .     .  26 

Stratford-on-Avon 28 

The  Summit 29 

The  Child  of  the  Childless  30 


x  Contents 

To  an  Aunt  on  Her  Eightieth  Birthday     .  34 

Were  You  But  Dead 35 

The  Suppliant 36 

Sailing-Ship  Days 37 

Sand  Sailors 39 

Idolaters 40 

Nihil  Nisi  Bonum 41 

The  Victory  of  the  Woods 42 

My  Comfort 45 

To  A  Child  That  Lived  But  An  Hour    .  46 

The  Modern  God 47 

Transubstantiation 48 

Waiting 49 

I  Need  Not  Search  the  Sky 50 

The  Song  of  the  Shell 51 

Seen  in  Passing 54 

Whom  Germany  Refuses  to  Honor     .     .  55 

To  My  Mother 56 

To  Romain  Rolland 57 

Charlemagne 58 

The  Kiss 59 

The  Forgotten  Grave 61 

To  the  Modern  Spirit 62 

To  a  Flying-Fish 63 

The  Winter  Woods 65 

The  Passing  of  Tom  Champagne    ...  66 

Point  of  View 69 

To  a  King-Fisher  or  Halcyon     ....  70 

Compensation 72 


Contents  XL 

The  Inconsistent  Pedlar 73 

The  Land  of  Upside  Down 75 

Love  is  Not  Wholly  Lost 77 

Silence 78 

Disguises 80 

So,  It  Has  Come 81 

To  a  Girl  of  the  Streets  Who  Befriended 

Francis  Thompson 82 

To  a  Holly  Tree 85 

My  Instant 87 

Unreality 88 

A  Study  in  Contrasts 89 

To  a  Hermit  Thrush 94 

The  Turn  of  the  Road 95 

Why  do  You  Idle  ? 96 

Renaissance 97 

Masks 99 

Why  are  the  Dead  Not  Dead  ?      ...  101 

Dear,  Do  I  Hope 102 

The  Vase  103 


THE  POET 

In  the  darkness  he  sings  of  the  dawning, 
In  the  desert  he  sings  of  a  rose, 
Or  of  limpid  and  laughing  water 
That  thro  green  meadows  flows. 

He  flings  a  Romany  ballad 
Out  thro  his  prison  bars 
And,  deaf,  he  sings  of  nightingales 
Or,  blind,  he  sings  of  stars. 

And  hopeless  and  old  and  forsaken, 
At  last  with  failing  breath 
A  song  of  faith  and  youth  and  love 
He  sings  at  the  gates  of  death. 


THE  RIVER 

I  cannot  sleep  ;  —  the  beautiful  Lynnhaven 
Floods  thro  my  thoughts  tonight. 
Past  darkling  pines  it  moves  and  willows  weep 
ing 
In  many  a  cove  and  bight. 

I  cannot  sleep  because  it  gleams  like  silver. 
Altho  my  eyes  are  sealed, 
Clear  to  my  vision  are  its  dusky  shallows 
And  starry  depths  revealed. 

Slowly  it  moves,  and  in  a  mystic  silence, 
It  draws  me  wondering, 
Out  thro  its  shadowy  portals  to  the  ocean 
Where  sails  are  blossoming. 

On,  ever  on,  to  strange  and  far  adventure 
On  waters  wide  and  deep 
The  river  bears  me  thro  the  fragrant  darkness, 
And  so  I  cannot  sleep. 


AN  EGOIST  AT  LYNNHAVEN 

The  lilies  of  France  are  wilting, 

But  here  in  pain's  despite 

The  willow  leaves  are  lilting  o'er  the  river's 
liquid  light. 

The  roses  of  England  are  bowing 

In  grief  o'er  many  a  grave, 

But  here  star-flowers  are  showing  and  green 
marsh-banners  wave. 

Afar  great  thrones  are  falling 

And  Famine  stalks  the  lands, 

But  here  Delight  is  calling  to  Lynnhaven's 
shining  sands. 

If  God  needs  my  compassion 

For  the  sad  world's  tears  and  sighs, 

Why  flaunt  in  ruthless  fashion  such  beauty  be 
fore  my  eyes  ? 


THE  PAGAN 

Thinking  to  shrive  me  in  the  solitude  — 
By  all  my  folly  and  my  failure  spent  — 
Steeling  my  heart  against  the  sight  and  scent 
Of  tender  spring,  I  sought  the  cloistered  wood  ; 
But  Nature,  scornful  of  my  chastened  mood, 
Across  my  vision  flung  a  jasmine  flower  ;  — 
How  could  my  thoughts  with  such  a  golden 

dower 

Go  clad  in  garb  of  nun  or  Quaker's  hood  ? 
Lest  even  the  yellow  jasmine  be  withstood 
More  snares  were  set.     Not  only  far  around, 
About,  above,  did  loveliness  abound  ; 
A  firmament  of  blossoms  starred  the  sod  ! 
Fie  on  you  Pagan  Nature,  thus  to  make 
Mock  of  a  sober  mind  for  beauty's  sake  ! 


SHADOWS 

The  poets  croon  to  the  orbed  moon 
Their  lays,  —  and  their  praise  they  bring 
To  Apollo,  the  sun,  the  all-glorious  one, 
In  song  as  an  offering. 

They  sing  to  the  stars,  to  Venus  and  Mars  — 
Votaries  all,  of  light  — 
But  who  of  them  sings  to  the  shadows, 
The  offspring  of  day  and  of  night  ? 
Who  of  them  sings  or  a  tribute  brings 
To  the  shadows  more  lovely  than  light  ? 
A  spire  of  darkness,  solemn  and  still, 
Is  the  cedar's  shadow  on  the  hill, 
No  matter  how  the  wind  may  try 
To  shake  its  brooding  dignity. 
The  sycamore's  shadows  are  dancing  feet  — 
Myriads  of  them,  delicate,  fleet, 
That  never  advance  and  never  retreat, 
But  leap  and  frolic  while  breezes  play 
In  the  whirl  and  swirl  of  a  French  ballet. 
The  pine  trees'  shadows  are  woven  lace 
Filling  the  woods  with  an  eerie  grace  — 
5 


6  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

Mechlin  and  Cluny  and  fine  Guipure 
Such  as  the  knights  and  ladies  wear 
In  paintings  of  Coques  or  Lagilliere  ; 
Not  even  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  spread 
A  carpet  so  rich  for  his  queen  to  tread. 

The  shadows   are   etched   on   the   lawn   and 

sketched 

On  the  marsh  where  the  lilies  blow  ; 
Thro  the  crystal  glass  of  the  river  they  pass 
Far  down  to  the  silence  below, 
Where  many  a  faery  tower  and  dome 
They  build  to  give  my  thoughts  a  home. 

Let  others  sing  to  the  sun  and  bring 

To  the  moon  and  stars  their  offering  ! 

To  the  gentle  shade  my  songs  be  sung 

Whose  mantle  over  my  heart  is  flung, 

To  the  quiet  shade  whose  hush  is  laid 

On  my  spirit's  stress  ! 

For  me  full  meed  of  happiness 

Is  found  in  gazing  on  woods  and  meadows 

And  weaving  fantasies  out  of  the  shadows. 


ON  BEING  ADVISED  TO  FILL  IN  MY 
SWAMP 

Only  a  swamp  !    Yet  the  inhabitants 
Speak  in  the  tongue  of  Aristophanes  ! 
Brekekekex,  ko-ax,  the  guttural  chants 
Are  borne  to  me  upon  the  evening  breeze  : 
Without  my  frogs  the  night  would  be  too  still, 
The  cry  too  lonely  of  the  whippoorwill. 

All  day  the  long  deft  fingers  of  the  light 
Are  weaving  patterns  in  the  river  reeds. 
Adventurous  snails  climb  to  a  perilous  height 
To  view  the  world  from  swaying  grass  and 

weeds, 

And  insects  dart  about  on  azure  wing. 
They  think  a  swamp  is  a  delightful  thing  ! 

It  is  a  painter's  palette,  for  the  sun 
Mixes  his  colors  there  ;  and  there  the  fog 
Creeping  about  hangs  gems  on  every  one 
Of  all  the  myriad  grasses  in  the  bog. 
You  city  folk  may  call  it  drear  and  damp  ; 
You  have  your  pavements  —  let  me  keep  my 
swamp  ! 


TO  MY  FATHER 

"  Sie  hbren  nicht  die  folgenden  Gesange, 
Die  Seelen  denen  ich  die  ersten  sang." 

Goethe 

In  other  years  my  heart  was  glad  and  young, 
The  month  was  always  May, 

But,  tho  my  throat  was  all  a-throb  with  song, 

You  bade  me  —  "  Hold  !  Delay 
The  while  that  you,  who  know  not  anything 

Of  life,  nor  height  of  joy  nor  depth  of  sorrow  — 

May  live  to-day  and  on  a  distant  morrow 
Then  you  shall  sing  ! " 

You  who  had  cared  to  listen  now  are  gone, 

To  a  far  country  sped, 
Where  other  voices  sing  to  you  —  or  none  — 

Among  the  quiet  dead. 

Would  that  my  voice  a  starry  way  could  wing 
To  you  who  had  for  my  sake  loved  my  song  ! 
To  win  the  ear  of  an  indifferent  throng 

Why  should  I  sing  ? 

Oh,  but  my  songs  are  prisoned  birds  and  wild  ! 
They  beat  resistlessly 
8 


To  My  Father  9 

Within  my  heart,  untamed,  unreconciled 

To  their  captivity. 

The  bud  does  not  today  cease  burgeoning 
Because  the  flower  must  bloom  unseen  to 
morrow  ; 

My  soul  is  over-charged  with  joy  and  sorrow 
And  I  must  sing  ! 


CRUSADERS 

I  see  a  great  procession  sweep  along  : 
Crusaders  these  in  shining  armor.     Tho 
They  go  they  know  not  whither,  yet  they  go 
In  brave  array,  a  proud  and  plumed  throng. 
Their  trumpets  sound  and  streaming  flags  out- 
flung 

Challenge  despair  and  doubt  and  overthrow. 
And  still  they  march,  and  still  they  do  not  know 
Whither  or  whence  —  or  why  their  song  is 
sung  ! 

And  tho  all  moving  in  the  van  are  lost 

In  shadows,  others  sweeping  onward  seize 

The  fallen  flags  and,  singing,  wave  them  high. 

What  privilege  is  mine  with  such  a  host, 

Ever  renewed  thro  time's  immensities, 

To  march  and  sing  my  hour  beneath  the  sky  ! 


10 


THE  OWL 

In  the  woods  last  night  I  saw  an  owl. 

Now  Father  says  he  was  just  a  fowl 

Like  all  the  hens  in  our  kitchen  yard  ; 

But  don't  you  know,  it's  awf 'lly  hard 

To  believe  that  creature  was  only  a  bird  ! 

He  stared  and  stared  and  never  stirred, 

But  once  he  gave  a  solemn  wink  — 

A  sort  of  weird  and  uncanny  blink  — 

As  tho  he  would  say  it  was  very  absurd 

That  I  should  imagine  that  he  was  a  bird. 

He  was  old  and  withered  and  huddled  and 

grey; 

I  felt  so  creepy  I  stole  away. 
I'd  never  dare  to  tell  Mamma 
That  he  looked  just  like  my  gran'papa  ! 


11 


THE  PRICE 


If  you  should  love  me,  all  my  life  were  spent, 
Dearest,  in  loving  you  ;    your  kiss  would 

seal 
My  lips  and  silence  would  their  message 

steal. 

For,  to  a  woman's  soul,  less  eloquent 
Ambition  is  than  love  ;  too  full  content 
To  live  in  you,  no  longer  I  should  feel 
My  pulses  throb  an  answer  to  the  appeal 
Of  Fame,  and  so  my  loving  would  prevent 
My  larger  living  :  therefore,  dear,  to-night, 
Stretching  to  God  weak  arms  that  yearn  for 

you, 

With  lips  that  tremble  for  your  kiss,  I  pray 
That  He  will  lead  you  from  me  to  the  light 
Of  other  love  ;    that,  while  you  fade  from 

view, 
I  may  have  strength  to  turn  my  face  away. 


II 


Dearest,  I  turned  my  face  but  still  my  eyes 
Held  clear  the  vision  of  your  passing  slow  : 
12 


The  Price  13 

I  stopped  my  hearing  to  your  voice,  but  lo, 
Still  my  heart  heard  your  pleadings  and  your 

sighs  ! 
Methought  that  little  arms  in  tender  wise 

Clung  to  my  neck  —  ah,  to  have  held  them 

so  !  — 
Then  loosed  their  clasp  and,  soft,  there 

seemed  to  grow 

And,  lingering,  die,  as  music  lingering  dies 
Afar,  the  sound  of  little  pattering  feet 

That  paused  —  and  passed.     With  a  great 

cry  —  "  Then  this, 
This  were  the  price  !  "  —  I  turned  to  you  ; 

oh,  fast 

Enfold  me,  for  my  life  is  full  complete 
If  I  do  naught  but  love  ;  that  loving  is 
The  larger  living,  now  I  know  at  last  ! 


THE  SECRET 

The  woods  have  their  secrets  but  I  know  one  of 
them  ! 

I  have  surprised  a  little  pool  among  the  cold 

bare  trees, 
Silent  as  moonlight  lying 

On  the  chill  marble  of  a  Venetian  palace  court 
yard. 

The  winter,  stripping  the  woods  of  their  shelter 
ing  leaves, 
Betrayed  its  hiding-place. 

So  peaceful  was  it  I  felt  a  rude  intruder 

And  crept  away,  treading  softly  on  the  soft 
pine-needles. 

It  was  a  little  pond  but  it  held  hi  its  bosom  a 

vast  stillness 
And  the  shadows  of  three  cedars. 


14 


THE  DEAD  THRUSH 

Is  anything  so  dead  as  a  dead  bird  ?  — 

So  poignantly,  so  pitifully  mute 

The  tender  feathered  breast  no  longer  stirred 

By  song  that,  more  than  viol,  harp  or  flute, 

Could  fill  with  dear  delight  the  heart  that  heard. 

Lovely  the  wildwood  was  today  and  lush 
With  flower  and  fern  till,  on  a  mossy  bed 
Beneath  my  feet,  I  saw  a  hermit  thrush  ;  — 
A  singer  of  celestial  song  was  dead  ;  — 
And  suddenly  from  tree  and  flower  and  bush 
All  fragrance  and  all  loveliness  had  fled.  .  .  . 
The  twilight  falls  and  all  the  delicate  hush 
Of  evening  vibrates  with  the  music  sped. 


15 


SUN-RISE 

Oh  how  we  loved  to  see  the  sun  arise  — 

Ofttimes  in  very  thunder 

Of  light  —  on  strange  horizons  !    How  your 
eyes 

Would  fill  —  would  flood  —  with  wonder  ! 

Full  many  a  crimson  dawning  on  far  seas 
Have  we  watched,  love,  together  ; 

Behind  tall  palms  or  pines  or  olive  trees  ; 
On  hills  of  purple  heather. 

But  now  unwelcome  is  the  breaking  light, 

For  now  it  comes  concealing 
Your  beauty  that  the  darkness  of  the  night 

Had  been  awhile  revealing. 

In  vain  I  hold  you  close  !  In  vain  I  hide 
Your  face  !  The  dawn  comes  creeping 

In  at  our  shuttered  window  to  your  side 
And  takes  you,  gently  sleeping, 

Out  to  the  church-yard.     There  beneath  the 

flowers 

Where  you  have  long  been  lying  — 
Ah,  dear,  so  long  !  —  you  stay  till  night's  still 

hours 

Again  disprove  your  dying. 
16 


THE  MAGIC  GOWN 

I  long  to  see  the  fairies,  the  fairies,  the  fairies, 
Will  someone  tell  me  where  is 
The  place  the  fairies  dwell  ? 
I  long  to  see  the  fairies,  the  fairies,  the  fairies, 
But  where  their  hidden  lair  is, 
Alas,  no  child  can  tell  ! 

Now  Mother  sang  this  little  song 
After  I  went  to  bed, 
And  so  I  lay  there  sleepily 
With  fairies  in  my  head. 

I  wonder  where  their  lair  is, 
I  thought  :  —  without  compare  is 
Their  queen,  so  very  fair  is 
Her  face,  and  gold  her  hair  is  ; 
I  rather  think  her  chair  is 
A  mushroom  and  her  stair  is 
A  jasmine  stalk  ;   her  wherries 
Are  nautili  ;   her  dairies 
Are  milkweed  ;   all  her  care  is 
To  keep  the  little  fairies 
At  work,  as  each  one's  share  is 
In  gathering  slugs  and  berries, 
Moths,  caterpillars,  cherries, 
17 


18  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

For  such  their  dainty  fare  is  :  — 
I'll  go  on  "  counting  sheep  "  ; 
Perhaps  in  Dreamland  there  is 
Some  way  to  catch  the  fairies  ; 
Perhaps  some  trap  or  snare  is 
The  means,  tho  such  a  scare  is 
Not  good  for  little  fairies  .  .  . 
But  here  I  fell  asleep. 

Now  old  Jemima  Jones,  the  cook, 
Had  left  beside  my  bed  a  book. 
'Twas  open  and  I  seemed  to  see, 
Tho  in  the  dark,  this  recipe  ; 

"  Get  satin  from  the  shining  grass. 

Silk  from  the  river's  sheen, 

And  velvet  from  the  mullein  leaf 

Of  soft  and  radiant  green  ; 

A  long  pine-needle  and  some  thread 

Of  spider's  web  as  well, 

And  weave  a  dress  whose  loveliness 

Shall  serve  you  as  a  spell  : 

At  red  moon-set  or  pale  moon-rise 

You'll  be  unseen  of  fairies'  eyes, 

And  so  within  the  woodland  wild 

You'll  find  them  tho  a  mortal  child." 

Across  my  face  the  moon-light  crept  ; 
Exultant  out  of  bed  I  leapt. 


The  Magic  Gown  19 

But  then,  alas,  I  struck  a  light 

To  see  if  I  had  read  aright. 

Yes,  open  there  the  cook-book  lies, 

But  not  to  gowns  of  magic  sheen 

All  fashioned  of  the  forest  green  :  — 

Dull  recipes  for  lemon  pies 

And  stupid  puddings  greet  my  eyes  ! 

Farewell  then  to  the  fairies,  the   fairies,   the 

fairies, 
For  none  can  show  me  where  is 

The  place  the  fairies  dwell. 
I  long  to  see  the  fairies,  the  fairies,  the  fairies, 
But  where  their  hidden  lair  is 
No  waking  child  can  tell  ! 


THE  OLD  MEN 

At  the  edge  of  Point  Graymalkin  the  pines 

stand  — 

Old  men,  dark  against  the  sky. 
They  fling  out  withered  arms  knotted   and 

gnarled, 
Threatening  the  river  with  frantic  gestures, 

Impotent,  grotesque, 
Daring  it  to  trespass  on  their  woods. 
The    water,     all    unheeding,     rises  .  .  .  and 

falls  .  .  . 

And  the  arms  wave  in  triumph, 
For  the  old  men  believe  the  river  slunk  away 
In  fear  of  them. 


20 


A  HUSBAND  TO  A  WIFE 

Tell  me,  my  dearest,  that  your  love  for  me 
Is  dead,  then  turn  and  look  into  my  eyes. 
You  still  shall  find  a  share  of  Paradise 
Has  lingered  there,  for  there  you  still  shall  see 
My  love  for  you.     I  shall  not  utter  sighs 
Or  plaints,  and  standing  coldly,  quietly, 
I  shall  not  touch  your  hand  or  hair,  nor  be 
Your  lover,  for  my  love  will  make  me  wise 
And  strong  to  be  your  helper,  and  to  hide 
My  sorrow  and  my  pain.     Not  hand  in  hand 

Into  the  morning,  as  true  lovers  might, 
But  —  tho  apart  —  together,  side  by  side, 
Because  we  share  one  grief  and  understand, 
Let  us  walk  bravely  forth  into  the  night. 


21 


ON    BEING   TOLD    THAT   MY   CHILD 
RESEMBLES  ME 

I  would  not  have  you  of  my  fashioning 
Sweet  child  —  not    yours    these    hands    that 

spill  the  wine 
Life  proffers  !    You,  with  steadier  grasp  than 

mine, 

Shall  lift  the  chalice  high  ; 
Shall  drink  and,  drinking,  sing 

The  song  that  on  my  lips  would  never  reach 
the  sky  ! 

Not  yours  these  faltering  feet,  these  strain 
ing  eyes 

That  cannot  see  the  stars  for  mists  of  earth  ! 
Oh,  naught  have  I  to  give  you  of  my  dearth  ! 

For  your  clear  gaze  shall  see 
Beauty  thro  all  disguise, 
And  winged  shall  be  your  feet  like  those 
of  Mercury  ! 

Yet  for  your  voice  of  sweetness  and  of  power 
My  voice  shall  set  the  key  ;  my  candle-light 
Shall  fire  your  torch  to  flame  thro  all  the  night. 

Be,  dear  one  —  if  you  must 
Be  aught  of  me  —  the  flower 

Of  all  my  aspirations,  blossoming  from 
their  dust ! 

22 


ONE  ROSE 

I  cannot  bear  the  beauty  of  one  rose, 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  give  me  two  or  three  - 

A  nosegay  of  them,  that  my  eye  may  be 

Distracted  and  not  linger  over-long 

On  one  :   its  heart  holds  too  much  mystery  : 

Within  it  burn  the  holy  vestal  fires 

Of  all  the  world's  deep  longings  and  desires 

All  loveliness  is  there  !     So  soft  among 

Those  tender  petals  such  perfection  glows, 

I  cannot  bear  the  beauty  of  one  rose. 


23 


THE  FLOWER 


I  saw  you  in  a  shadowy  dell 

Where  one  wild  rose  —  one  only  —  grew  ; 

That  rose  my  heart  remembers  well. 

I  saw  you  in  a  shadowy  dell  ; 

I  gazed  and  gazed,  but  could  not  tell 

Which  was  the  rose  and  which  was  you  ! 

I  saw  you  in  a  shadowy  dell 

Where  one  wild  rose  —  one  only  —  grew. 


II 


When  all  the  world  was  sweet  with  May 
(But  now  alas,  it  is  December  ! ) 
We  plighted  troth.     That  blithesome  day 
WTien  a  1  the  world  was  sweet  with  May 
A  warbler  sang  a  lyric  lay 
Above  us  ;  —  ah,  do  you  remember 
When  all  the  world  was  sweet  with  May  ? 
.  .  .  But  now  alas,  it  is  December  ! 
24 


The  Flower  25 


III 

You  are  too  delicate  a  flower 

To  gather  for  a  lover's  breast. 

Then  bloom  your  frail  and  fleeting  hour  ! 

You  are  too  delicate  a  flower  ;  — 

I  leave  you  in  your  woodland  bower 

Where  passion's  wind  will  not  molest. 

You  are  too  delicate  a  flower 

To  gather  for  a  lover's  breast. 


YESTERDAY,  TO-DAY   AND 
TO-MORROW 

"  My  love,  your  eyes  are  veiled  and  sad. 

You  grieve  for  Youth  —  her  dancing  feet 
And  all  the  lightsome  ways  she  had  ; 

But  still,  tho  yesterday  was  sweet, 
To-day  too  may  be  glad." 

"  What  matter  whether  sad  or  gay  ? 
One  moment  we  may  laugh  or  pray 
And  lo,  today  is  yesterday  !  " 

"  But  tho,  with  all  its  joy  and  sorrow, 
To-day  so  swiftly  comes  and  goes, 

Yet  future  joy  is  yours  to  borrow  ; 
The  birds  will  sing,  the  buds  unclose. 
Rejoice  then  in  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Ah,  whether  skies  be  blue  or  grey  — 
Come  song  or  silence,  March  or  May, 
To-morrow  will  be  yesterday  !  " 

"  Then,  since  to-morrow  fades  so  fast 
Into  the  shrouding  mists  that  lie  — 
26 


Yesterday,  To-day  and  To-morrow       27 

Impenetrable,  chill  and  vast  — 
About  to-day,  thro  memory 

Live  in  the  happy  past !  " 

"  The  happy  past  !    I  say  you  nay  ! 

For  yesterday  alas,  alway 

Is  sad  because  'tis  yesterday." 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Stratford,  the  while  I  pace  your  streets,  I  see 
Naught  of  the  throng  to  whom  to-day  is 

dear  ; 

For  it  is  yesterday  is  precious  here. 
Upon  the  breeze  is  borne  sweet  Portia's  plea 
For  mercy  ;   Ariel  sings,  and  Antony 

Summons  me  back  to  weep  at  Caesar's  bier. 
Macbeth  and  Hamlet,  Bolingbroke  and  Lear 
Rise  from  your  storied  stones  and  walk  with  me. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  I  must  halt,  my  breath 
Stifled  with  feeling  ;  —  this  the  very  air 
That  Shakespeare  breathed  !    Mid  tender 

meadows  lying 

Yon  Avon  smiled  upon  his  life  and  death  ! 
Ah,  Stratford-Town,  my  heart  can  hardly 

bear 
To  realize  thus  his  living  and  his  dying. 


28 


THE  SUMMIT 

"  Why    should    you    seek    to    scale    Mount 

Everest  ?  " 
They   cry   who   blind   and   dreamless   cannot 

know 

What  fires  of  glory  and  of  splendor  glow 
Upon  that  lonely  height,  who  think  the  crest 
And  summit  of  the  world  a  waste  of  snow, 
A  wilderness  —  no  more,  who  have  not  guessed 
It  is  the  Peak  of  Vision  where  the  quest 
Shall  end  with  stars  and  suns  to  crown  the 

brow. 

Oh,  I  shall  laugh  to  see  the  moon  arise 
And  look  upon  me  with  a  startled  gaze  ! 
Monarch  of  earth,  invader  of  the  skies, 
Triumphant  I  shall  sing  my  diapase. 
While  far  below  men  crawl  in  clay  and  clod, 
Sublimely  I  shall  stand  alone  with  God. 


29 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  CHILDLESS 

(A  woman  with  the  traces  of  great  beauty  in  face  and  form 
stands  before  an  open  fire  in  the  twilight,  gazing  into  a  mirror 
on  the  mantel.) 

THE  WOMAN  : 

The  snow  is  on  nay  hair  and  the  swift  sap 
Of  summer  in  my  veins  is  stopped  by  frost. 
By  my  own  will  I  am  childless. 

( The  form  of  a  beautiful  child  that,  like  a  Botticelli  angel, 
might  be  either  boy  or  girl,  appears.  The  firelight  is  seen 
thining  through  the  transparent  form.) 

THE  CHILD  : 

Mother  !    Mother  ! 

Did  you  not  hear  my  cry  on  the  night  wind 
Of  yearning  to  be  nested  'neath  your  heart  ? 

THE  WOMAN  : 

I  heard  —  ah,  yes,    I  heard,  but   would   not 

heed. 

Oh,  but  to  carry  in  my  body  now 
The  fluttering  promise  of  that  sweet  fulfilment ! 
For  I  who  feared  to  suffer  should  rejoice 
The  while  I  beat  the  air  in  agony. 
30 


The  Child  of  the  Childless  31 

Let  heaven  and  earth  meet  in  a  flame  of  pain 
If  milk  but  come  to  burn  these  barren  breasts  ! 

THE  CHILD  : 

Out  of  the  silence  brooding  on  the  sea  ; 

Out  of  the  clouds  that  swept  across  the  moon  ; 

Out  of  the  tender  heart  of  every  rose 

I  called  to  you  to  give  me  flowers  and  dawn, 

Sunset  and  evening  star  and  pain  and  love. 

I  called  to  you  :  you  heard  and  did  not  heed  ! 

THE  WOMAN  : 

Oh,  come  to  me,  my  hands  are  over-flowing 
With  roses  now  and  they  are  all  for  you. 
You  shall  have  stars  for  playthings,  and  my 

beauty 

That  I  so  feared  to  spend,  I'll  give  to  you, 
And  he  for  whom  I  guarded  it  will  love  it 
The  dearer  spent  than  hoarded. 

THE  CHILD  : 

It  is  past  — 

Your  beauty  !    Altho  hoarded,  it  is  spent  ! 

The  stars  you  might  have  given  were  in  your 
eyes  — 

Youth,    hope    and     faith  —  these     are     ex 
tinguished  like 

A  candle  in  the  wind,  and  see,  your  roses 

Are  crushed,  the  petals  fallen  thro  your  fingers. 


32  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

THE  WOMAN  : 

I  have  no  gifts  —  it  is  true  !    My  hands  are 

empty 

Of  rose  and  star.      Yet  come  un-gifted  ;  come, 
Yourself  the  giver  !     Music  of  pattering  feet, 
Of  childish  laughter,  bring  into  this  stillness 
That  aches  about  our  house  and  in  our  hearts  ! 

THE  CHILD  : 

I  cannot  cross  the  gulf  that  separates 
My  soul  that  should  have  been  from  yours 
that  is. 

THE  WOMAN  : 

I  can  no  longer  bear  —  yet  I  must  bear  — 
To  see  within  the  eyes  of  him  I  love, 
Tho,  loving,  I  refused  him  the  one  gift 
That  most  he  craved,  the  pitiful  surrender 
Of  our  once-dear  tomorrow.     While  we  sit 
And  listen  to  the  clock  that  ticks  away 
Our  solitary  hours,  we  doubt  and  fear 
Lest  now  to-day  is  our  entire  possession. 

THE  CHILD  : 

Alas,  you  would  have  had  in  me,  your  child, 
An  immortality  to  grasp  and  hold 
Incorporate  against  all  doubts  and  fears  ! 


The  Child  of  the  Childless  33 

THE  WOMAN  : 

And  now  forever  I  shall  hear  you  call  ! 

THE  CHILD  : 

Yes,  I  shall  whisper  in  the  rustling  leaves, 

And  I  shall  sob  low  in  the  washing  waves, 

And  I  shall  weep  whenever  falls  the  rain  ; 

For  now  I  am  but  an  immortal  cry 

Of  longing  that  shall  drift  a-down  the  wind  : 

Yet  the  mysterious  light  of  the  still  moon 

Shall  search  me  out  —  a  wraith  —  and  give  me 

being 
Unbearable  to  your  un-childed  heart. 

THE  WOMAN  : 

Oh  to  be  spared  the  silence,  with  your  voice 

Piercing  it  thro  —  crying  "  It  is  too  late  !  " 

THE  CHILD  : 

It  is  too  late  !  .  .  .  Mother  ! 

(The  firelight  becomes  gradually  more  brightly  visible 
thro  the  form  of  the  child,  and  as  it  disappears  the  arms 
may  last  be  seen  stretched  out  toward  the  mother  in  anguished 
entreaty.) 

THE  WOMAN  : 

(Starting  toward  the  vanishing  figure,  then  sinking  into  a 
chair  with  a  strangled  cry.) 

My  child  !  .  .  .  My  child  ! 


TO  AN  AUNT  ON  HER  EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY 

Haggard  and  bent,  with  slow  and  weary  pace, 
Have  eighty  winters  passed  you.     Creeping 

nigh 
They  held  out  withered  arms  that  seemed  to 

try 

To  fold  you  in  their  harsh  and  cold  embrace  ; 
Their  fingers  only  brushed  your  hair  and  face. 
But  eighty  summers,  lightly  tripping  by, 
Have  clasped  you  and  enwound  you  lovingly 
With  garlands  of  their  beauty  and  their  grace. 

Great-hearted  daughter  of  great-hearted  sires, 
In  vain  the  years  besiege  you  and  assail  ! 
Your  youthful  spirit  holds  its  banners  high. 
Since  in  my  blood  smoulder  the  self-same  fires 
That  flame  in  yours,  when  I  would  faint  or  fail, 
"  Nobless  oblige  "  shall  be  my  rallying-cry  ! 


34 


WERE  YOU  BUT  DEAD 

Were  you  but  dead, 

That  yearning  of  the  arms  that  clasp  the  dark 
When,  in  the  hush  of  long  night  hours,  I  hark 
For  Memory's  whispers  —  even  that  agony 
Were  sweet  if  Memory  still  could  comfort  me  ; 
But  Memory's  sweetness  is  forever  fled. 

Were  you  but  dead  ! 

Were  you  but  dead, 
Some  golden-rod  from  your  gold  hair  might 

grow, 
A  wild  blush-rose  from  your  cold  cheek  might 

blow, 

And  all  the  fragrance  of  your  grave  would  steal 
Across  my  heart  and  make  my  senses  reel 
With  past  delight  till  present  pain  were  sped. 
Were  you  but  dead  ! 

Were  you  but  dead  — 
Ah,  then  mayhap  no  longer  I  should  crave 
The  sensuous  sweetness  of  your  grassy  grave, 
But,  all  my  passion  purified,  should  feel 
Divmest  love  my  anguished  spirit  seal, 
For  then  from  heaven  my  starving  soul  were 
fed. 

Were  you  but  dead  ! 
35 


THE  SUPPLIANT 

Your  sin  came  knocking  at  my  heart  : 

I  bade  it  stay  outside. 

"  If  I  receive  and  harbour  it, 

Love  is  profaned,"  I  cried. 

Oh  fast  I  locked  and  barred  the  door 
Until  at  last  I  knew 
That,  holding  it  against  your  sin, 
I  held  it  against  you. 

No  more  I  heard  that  knock,  and  you 
Were  silent  in  your  pride.  .  .  . 
My  trembling  fingers  on  the  door 
I  laid  and  flung  it  wide. 

Your  sin  —  poor,  suppliant,  shivering  thing 
Warm  to  my  heart  I  pressed, 
And  unafraid  and  unashamed 
It  shelters  in  my  breast. 


36 


SAILING-SHIP  DAYS 

The  roach  was  in  the  galley  and  the  rat  was  in 

the  hold, 
Not  to  mention  what  was  in  your  bunk  at 

night, 

And  the  weevil  in  the  biscuit  — 
Well,  you  simply  had  to  risk  it, 
To  shut  your  eyes  before  you  took  a  bite. 
What  mattered  rat  or  weevil  or  any  such-like 

evil 
When  the  muscles  rippled  underneath  your 

skin 

As  tho  they'd  all  been  oiled, 
And  your  stomach  was  un-spoiled 
And  could  easily  digest  a  sardine  tin  ? 
What    mattered    anything   with    those    great 

white  sails  a-swing, 

While  "  Set  the  cross-jack,  boys  !  "  or  "  Top 
sail  haul !  " 

Boomed  out  along  the  deck, 
Or  you  gaily  risked  your  neck 
To  clear  the  buntlines  fouling  in  a  squall  ? 
37 


38  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

I'm  master  of  a  steamer  now  and  crew  of  forty 

men, 

And  I  never  hear  a  proper  sailor's  damn. 
I've  officers,  not  mates, 
And  we've  bread-and-butter  plates 
And  "  serviettes  "  with  hem  and  monogram  ! 
But  I'd  forfeit  every  button  on  my  uniform  to 

put  on 

Once  again  the  rags  and  tags  of  Jacky  Tar  i 
My  shiny  boots  and  collars 
And  my  many  monthly  dollars  — 
I'd  give  them  all  to  sight  the  Northern  Star 
'Twixt  sagging  sails  that  sway  up  and  down  the 

Milky  Way 

Or,  filling,  fling  defiance  to  the  gale. 
I'm  a  gentleman  in  steam, 
But  I'll  never  cease  to  dream 
I'm  again  a  ragged  sailor  lad  in  sail. 


SAND  SAILORS 

The  boat  on  our  beach  is  bedded  in  sand  ; 
Some  storm  has  lifted  her  high  on  the  land  ; 

Like  the  sieve  of  the  famous  Wise  Men  Three 

She's  as  full  of  holes  as  a  boat  can  be. 
Now  Father  says  this  kind  of  boat 
Is  very  much  safer  that  will  not  float  ; 

But  he  does  not  know  how  far  I  go  ! 
Way  over  the  main  to  the  land  of  Spain 
In  an  hour  I  voyage  and  back  again. 

To  far  Peru  or  Kalamazoo, 

To  India,  China  or  Timbuctoo 
I  sail,  and  the  gale  may  howl,  and  the  hail 
May  lash,  my  vessel  can  never  fail 

To  ride  in  her  pride,  her  wings  spread  wide, 

And  she  cannot  sink  whatever  betide. 
I  have  a  crew  that  is  staunch  and  true  — 
Brother  Johnny  and  Barbara  too. 

They  think  like  me  that  a  ship  on  the  sea 
Is  not  so  nice  as  a  ship  on  the  land, 
Hard  and  fast  in  our  own  beach  sand. 


39 


IDOLATERS 

If  once  again  the  great  Gautama  came 
To  impious  earth,  what  grief  were  his  to  find 
That  men  have  made  of  him,  whose  lofty  mind 
Had  fired  the  torch  of  truth  with  searching 

flame, 

A  graven  image  only  with  the  name 
Of  Buddha  —  wood  and  stone,  grotesque  and 

blind  ! 

They  worship  that  !    Like  chaff  upon  the  wind 
The  truth  is  lost,  Gautama  put  to  shame. 

If  you  returned,  oh  Man  of  Galilee, 

And  saw  your  idol  that  our  hands  have  made  ; 

If  you  gazed  sadly  on  us  as  we  bow 

And  scrape  before  it,  should  we  also  flee 

Out  of  our  temples,  stricken  and  afraid, 

As  fled  the  money-changers  long  ago  ? 


40 


NffllL  NISI  BONUM 

They  say  his  heart  was  low  and  vile  and  base  ; 
But  I  know  only  this  :  —  I  saw  his  face 
When  spring's  first  shy,  sweet  violet  met  his 

gaze 
Blue-peeping  from  the  soft  and  leafy  shade. 

They  say  his  mind  was  base  and  low  and  vile  ; 
But  I  know  only  this  :  —  I  saw  the  smile 
That  hovered  wistful  round  his  lips  the  while 
The  great  Un-finished  Symphony  was  played. 

They  say  his  life  was  vile  and  base  and  low  ; 
Little  I  know  of  him,  but  this  I  know  :  — 
I  saw  his  tears  well  up  and  overflow 
Beside  the  grave  where  his  old  dog  was  laid! 


41 


THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  WOODS 

"  Come  on,  Elijah  !     Forward,  march  !  "       I 

cried 

One  winter's  morning  to  my  serving-man 
Whose  threescore  years  and  ten  had  only  made 
His  swing  more  sure  in  wielding  of  the  axe  ;  — 
"  Come,   shoulder  arms  !     We'll  have  a  tilt 

with  lance 

And  bayonet  —  your  axe,  Elijah  —  'gainst 
The  trees  and  shrubs  that  press  upon  my  house. 
Tho  Birnam  Wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane 
We'll  drive  it  back  !  "     Elijah,  proof  against 
All  classical  allusion,  understood 
Enough  to  lift  his  axe  ...  I  bade  him  stay  ! 
"  Lige,  I  forgot  the  eyrie  in  this  oak. 
Year  after  wandering  year  the  self-same  eagle 
Returns   to   this    same    nest  —  the    tree's    a 

palace, 

The  home  of  a  great  king,  and  heaven  forbid 
That  we  should  raze  a  palace  to  the  ground  !  " 

Elijah  grumbled  out  his  Bolshevistic 
Disdain  of  kings.     "  This  cedar  here,"  he  said 
"  Is  dour  and  sullen  ;  a  pall-bearer  could 
Not  look  more  darkly." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  to  let 
The  cedar  fall,  but  see,  a  yellow  jasmine 
Has  leaned  her  ladder  up  against  the  trunk 
42 


The  Victory  of  the  Woods  43 

And  when  June  comes  that  glowering  cedar  will 
Mysteriously  bloom  in  golden  flowers." 

"  Well  then,"  said  Lige,  "  I'll  cut  this  slat 
tern  shrub." 
"  What  !  Laurel,   Lige  ?     Why,   laurel   greets 

the  spring 

With  the  first  bridal  blushes  of  the  woods  ! 
It  brings  the  sunrise  down  to  earth  for  us  !  " 
"  This  willow  then,"  he  said,  "  for  all  men 

know 

A  weeping  willow  is  a  worthless  weed." 
"  Perhaps,  and  yet  she  bathes  her  slender  limbs 
Throughout  the  winter  in  the  river  there  ; 
You  must  admire  her  courage.     When  the  May 
Decks  her  in  green,  she  weaves  the  daintiest 

shadows  ! 

They  dance  so  lightly  that  my  heart  is  filled 
With  joyance  :   we  will  let  the  willow  live. 
But  this  tall  holly  is  too  near  my  door. 
It  pricks  and  tears  at  me  and  casts  a  shade 
Where  most  I  need  the  sun  .  .  .  Yet  wait,"   I 

cried, 

"  Lijah,  this  holly  burns  ten  thousand  tapers  - 
Perhaps  for  the  salvation  of  my  soul  ! 
And  verily,  it  is  my  burning  bush 
From  which  God  speaks  to  me  as  once  he  spoke 
To  Moses.     You  and  I  will  not  commit 
A  sacrilege  upon  it  !     Let  it  stay  !  " 
Lijah  was  baffled,  but  he  persevered 


44  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

With   a   fine   patience  :  — "  Here's   a   rotten 

stump  ; 
You  won't  save  this  ?  " 

"  No,  surely  I  can  pass 
Sentence  of  death  on  one  old  rotten  stump." 
The  old  man's  axe  was  eager.  .  .  . 

"Hold!"     I  cried:  — 
"  A  stay  of  execution  !     For  I  see 
A  mesh  of  stems  enwound  about  the  trunk  — 
Virginia  creeper  with  its  silent  promise 
Of  summer  beauty,  Nature  loveably 
Hiding  unlovely  things  in  loveliness." 

The  old  man,  muttering  his  disapprobation, 
Pointed  to  masses  of  low  scraggy  bushes 
Of  huckleberry  spoiling  all  the  sward. 
"  Well  then,  I'll  get  my  hoe  and  grub  up  these  : 
My  axe  don't  seem  to  be  much  use  today." 

"  Oh,  Lige,  forgive  me  !     We  must  leave  the 

shrubs  ! 

They  bring  the  thrushes  to  my  very  door 
To  prink  and  preen  !    These  huckleberries  gone 
I  lose  the  sober-coated  thrushes  too  !  " 

So  poor  old  Lijah  mumbled  a  good-night 
And  trudged  despondently  away,  no  doubt 
Brooding  in  silence  on  the  queer  mad  ways 
Of  gentry  ;  while  I  passed  along  the  path 
Uncouth  with  straggling  bushes,  to  my  house 
.Darkened  by  shadows  of  importunate  trees. 


MY  COMFORT 

Dearest,  if  such  a  love  as  we  have  known 

Should  e'er  forgotten  be, 
What  gain  of  new  delight  could  then  atone 

For  this  to  me  :  — 

That  I  should  deem  love  but  a  fragile  rose 

Fast  fading  while  we  dream  ? 
Better   grief's   darkness   since   that   darkness 
knows 

Vision  and  gleam  :  — 

Gleam  of  the  star  of  faith  that  shall  defy 
Time's  slow  forgetfulness. 

Remembering  you,  my  comfort  be  that  I 
Am  comfortless. 


45 


TO  A  CHILD  THAT  LIVED  BUT  AN 
HOUR 

I  have  felt  your  lips  like  a  delicate  flower  — 

Like  rose-leaves  —  on  my  breast. 

I  have  had  my  hour,  one  life-long  hour, 

I  have  known  the  end  of  the  quest, 

And  sorrow  is  mine  forevermore 

But  never  the  old  unrest. 

Tho  tears  forever  shall  blind  my  eyes, 
Yet  peace  shall  seal  my  pain, 
For  I  know  why  the  lily  blossoms  and  dies, 
Why  the  moon,  tho  it  wax,  must  wane, 
I  know  why  stars  were  lit  in  the  skies  :  — 
On  my  heart  a  child  has  lain. 


46 


THE  MODERN  GOD 

Jehovah,  ancient  God  of  Israel's  race, 
Our  fathers'  God,  is  God  no  more,  for  we 
Have  dragged  him  from  the  sky  while  Calvary 
Loomed  black  against  it,  smearing  on  his  face 
The  horrid  leer  of  Moloch,  the  grimace 
Of  Ashtaroth  that  all  may  know  that  he 
Is  but  a  god  of  old  idolatry  ; 
And  now  Ourselves  we  set  up  in  his  place. 

I  fear  that  heavenly  radiance  will  beat 
Too  hot  upon  our  foreheads,  and  that  down 
We  shall  come  hurtling  like  some  circus  clown 
Who  ventures  up  too  high  for  foolish  feet. 
Then  there  will  be  at  last  no  God  at  all. 
Better  perhaps  have  Ashtaroth  or  Baal  ! 


47 


TRANSUBSTANTIATION 

Here  on  my  verandah  the  clematis 

Fills  the  air  with  its  spiritual  fragrance 

And  the  rich  black  grapes  hang  clustered 

In  lustrous  promise  of  ruby  wine. 

But  yonder  I  see  thro  a  cleft  in  the  mountains 

That  frame  it  in  grandeur  — 

Softened  by  the  tender  mists  of  distance  — 

The  Battlefield  of  Gettysburg. 

And,  sudden,  from  the  swinging  censers 

Of  the  delicate  spiritual  clematis, 

Issues  the  penetrant  odor  of  incense, 

While  the  cluster  of  grapes  that  I  hold 

Stains  my  palms  with  blood. 


48 


WAITING 

One  gesture  had  sufficed  —  one  look  of  mine  — 
Last  night,  and  you  had  clasped  me  to  your 

breast. 

But  I,  tho  fearing  you  had  seen,  had  guessed, 
How  deep  I  drew  my  breath  lest  you  divine 
My  love  and  longing,  gave  nor  look  nor  sign  ; 
Lightly  I  spoke  some  gay  and  trivial  jest 
With  lips  that  trembled.     Fain  they  had  con 
fessed 
That  all  my  hopes  about  your  heart  entwine  ! 

Until  you  love  me  not  alone  when  eyes 
Are  lit  with  moonlight  making  lovers  blind, 
Not  with  a  restless,  a  tumultuous  mind 
But  with  a  calm  sure  passion  that  defies 
The  searching  day  ;   until  you  consecrate 
A  peaceful  heart  to  love,  I  watch  and  wait. 


49 


I  NEED  NOT  SEARCH  THE  SKY 

I  need  not  search  the  sky  for  stars  ; 
Down  in  the  leaves  and  mould 
The  checkerberry  blossoms  shine 
In  constellations  that  I  hold 
More  intimately  mine. 

I  need  not  look  to  heaven  for  all 
My  share  of  heavenly  grace 
The  while,  my  love,  you  smile  on  me. 
More  mine  the  rapture  in  your  face 
Than  aught  in  heaven  can  be. 


50 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHELL 

Mold  me  —  a  high-explosive  shell  — 
Carefully,  deftly,  shape  me  well  ! 
With  lyddite  and  with  mellinite, 
With  fulminate  of  mercury, 
Fill  me,  fitting  me  for  flight  — 
My  one  wild  flight  of  ecstasy 
Such  as  the  bee's  that  weds  the  queen. 
Oh,  make  me  sure  and  swift  and  keen, 
For  tho  I  wait  thro  years  of  peace, 
Yet  war  at  last  shall  bring  release 
From  restless,  dull  captivity. 

In  some  far  land  beyond  the  sea 
A  mother  holds  upon  her  knee 
The  victim  pre-ordained  for  me. 

Methinks  I  see  her  !     Firelight  gleams 
Within  her  eyes  that  fill  with  dreams. 
Oh,  little  recks  she  now  of  wars  ! 
She  sings  while  peaceful  shine  the  stars 

"  The  owl  may  hoot,  the  bat  may  flit 
Without  ;  I  hold  you  warm  and  close, 
51 


52  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

Wee,  tender  thing,  and  exquisite 
As  are  the  petals  of  a  rose." 

(How  I  laugh  to  hear  her  sing  !) 

"  Wee,  exquisite  and  tender  thing, 
Hush  you  !     See,  the  firelight  dies, 
But  the  love-light  in  my  eyes 
Is  light  enough  for  lullabies. 
Hush  you,  sweetling,  hush  and  rest 
Safe  and  warm  on  Mother's  breast  !  " 

And  I,  the  high-explosive  shell, 
While  she  sings  am  molded  well 
And  deftly,  and  triumphantly 
I  fling  my  song  across  the  sea 
To  the  babe  upon  her  knee  :  — 

"  Your  flesh  as  pink  as  rose-leaves  —  oh, 

How  I  shall  tear  and  mangle  it  ! 

That  innocent  throat  —  the  blood  shall  flow 

And  fill  and  stop  and  strangle  it  ! 

And  you  shall  lie  in  agony 

Beneath  a  pale  and  pitiless  sky. 

Above  you,  waiting  till  you  die, 

The  vultures  —  ravenous  —  shall  fly, 

The  while  I  rest  within  your  breast, 

The  end  and  goal  of  all  my  quest." 


The  Song  of  the  Shell  53 

I  sing  .  .  .  and,  soft,  the  baby  sleeps. 
It  is  for  me  the  mother  keeps 
Her  watch  !    For  this  her  hopes  are  high 
While  low  she  croons  her  lullaby  :  — 
"The  owl  may  hoot,  the  bat  may  flit 
Without  ;  I  hold  you  warm  and  close, 
Wee,  tender  thing,  and  exquisite 
As  are  the  petals  of  a  rose." 

Aha  !    That  mother  does  not  guess 
The  song  that  I,  the  bullet,  sing  ! 
Her  voice  is  sweet  with  happiness  :  — 

"  Wee,  exquisite  and  tender  thing, 
Hush  you  !     Hush  you,  darling  !    Rest 
Safe  from  harm  on  Mother's  breast." 


SEEN  IN  PASSING 

Brick  walls  and  a  few  square  feet 
Of  dusty  and  squalid  yard 
Where  a  poplar  tree  dies  hard 

And  a  bird  is  singing  sweet. 

At  a  broken  pane  I  see 
An  ancient  crone  who  sits 
And  patiently,  hopelessly  knits 

"  One  two,  two  three,  two  three." 

Then  sudden  the  bird  that  sings 
Hushes  her  mumbling  tongue, 
Gives  to  her  heart  its  song, 

Gives  to  her  soul  its  wings. 

For  an  instant  the  poplar  tree 
Sways  on  a  shining  strand 
And  the  song  is  sung  in  the  land 

Of  love  —  her  Lombardy. 

And  then  the  withered  lips  once  more 
Are  mumbling,  "One  two  three  and  four." 


54 


WHOM  GERMANY  REFUSES  TO  HONOR 

(An  appeal  in  Germany  for  funds  to  keep  up  as  a  memorial 
to  Goethe  a  house  in  which  he  had  lived,  met  with  almost  no 
response.) 

Oh  Germany,  you  crown  a  Hindenburg, 
A  Treitschke,  a  Bernhardi,  and  refuse 
The  laurels  to  your  most  illustrious  son  ! 
He  took  your  harsh  and  dissonant  syllables 
And  tuned  them  to  such  beauty  that  the  soul 
Is  borne  on  waves  of  deep  melodious  sound 
To  vast  and  dim  cathedrals  ;   organs  peal 
Sonorous  with  the  sorrows  of  the  world  : 
Or,  soft,  a  myriad  unseen  fingers  sweep 
A  myriad  harps,  and  hidden  choirs  hymn, 
White-stoled,  in  voices  virginal  and  clear. 

Amid  the  rack  and  tumult  of  the  time  — 
The  discords  of  your  inharmonious  days  — 
Unheeded  is  the  singer,  and  his  song 
Is  silent.  .  .  .     Hark  !     I  hear  his  music  still, 
Stealing    thro    ruined    aisles    and    crumbling 

arches 

Of  mighty  temples  that  are  dark,  deserted, 
Save  that  the  pale  and  pitiful  listening  moon 
Touches  the  broken  altars  wistfully. 
55 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

Your  form  is  dim  ;     your  hands,  your  brow, 

your  face 
Are  lost,  and  only  some  elusive  grace 

Remains  of  you  for  memory  to  prize  :  — 
A  fluttering  bit  of  lace, 

A  ribbon  —  oh,  the  past  is  pitiless 
And  will  not  yield  you  to  my  aching  eyes  ! 
Is  this  forgetfulness  ? 

Mother,  not  so  !     For  your  escape  is  of 
The  body,  not  the  spirit,  and  my  love 

Holds  you  —  forgotten  —  intimately  sweet, 
And  precious  far  above 

The  need  of  flesh  to  keep  remembrance 

true. 

Forgotten  ?  —  Ah,  my  very  pulses  beat 
In  memory  of  you  ! 


56 


TO  ROMAIN  HOLLAND 

(Who  Remained  "  Above  the  Battle  ") 

You  stand  a  lonely  figure  on  a  height 
That  reaches  to  the  stars.    About  you  rise 
The  stench  and  smoke  of  war's  grim  sacrifice. 
To  Baal,  whom  men  call  God  —  the  God  of 

might  — 

Their  altar  fires  flame  red  upon  the  night. 
You  gaze  and  deep  compassion  makes  your 

eyes 

Tender  with  tears  for  men's  idolatries. 
They  consecrate  with  song  and  solemn  rite 
War,  tho  it  scourges,  tho  it  crucifies 
Beauty  and  loveliness  and  all  delight. 
And  you,  great  soul,  clear-seeing  anchorite, 
You  they  assail  with  harsh  and  bitter  cries  — 
But  unavailing.    War  at  last  shall  cease 
And  men  shall  worship  God  —  the  God  of 

peace  ! 


57 


CHARLEMAGNE 


(Charlemagne  was  buried  sitting  upright  on  hit  Ihrone, 
robed  and  crowned,  his  sword  at  his  side.) 


He  sits  beneath  the  dust  of  conquered  worlds 
Clothed  in  imperial  robes,  his  restless  sword  — 
The  terror  once  of  Arab,  Saxon,  Moor  — 
Held  in  that  last  cold  grasp  of  lifeless  clay. 
How  must  that  spirit,  tortured  by  the  sight 
Of  crumbling  empires,  struggle  to  break  free  ! 
How  must  that  hand,  once  glorious  in  the  strife, 
That  death  alone  could  conquer,  strain  to  lift 
The  sword  and  save  the  kingdom  from  its 

doom  ! 

And  yet  he  moves  not  !     On  his  shadow  throne, 
While    muffled    sounds    of    kingdoms    falling 

strike 
His  earth-clogged  ears,  he  reigns  among  the 

shadows 

Until  with  wide  unblinded  eyes  he  see 
All  thrones  and  crowns  lie  broken  in  the  dust. 


58 


THE  KISS 


(To  the  Maid) 

You  call  me  thief  !     I  stole  a  kiss 
'Tis  true,  and  yet  'tis  hardly  fair 
That  you  —  particeps  criminis  — 
You  call  me  thief  !     I  stole  a  kiss, 
But  your  bewitching  fault  it  is 
For  wearing  rose-buds  in  your  hair. 
You  call  me  thief  !     I  stole  a  kiss 
'Tis  true,  and  yet  'tis  hardly  fair. 

II 

(To  the  Bride) 

I  kissed  the  maid  and  little  guessed 
That  lips  could  yield  this  draft  divine. 
That  stolen  kiss  was  but  a  jest  : 
I  kissed  the  maid  and  little  guessed 
That  thus  from  wedded  lips  is  pressed 
A  richer,  rarer,  ruddier  wine  ! 
I  kissed  the  maid  and  little  guessed 
That  lips  could  yield  this  draft  divine. 
59 


60  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

HI 

(To  the  Wife) 

No  kiss  of  maid  or  bride  endears 
Like  this,  fulfilled  of  faith  and  truth, 
That  has  withstood  the  blight  of  years. 
No  kiss  of  maid  or  bride  endears 
Like  this  made  up  of  smiles  and  tears 
Of  age,  my  love,  as  well  as  youth. 
No  kiss  of  maid  or  bride  endears 
Like  this,  fulfilled  of  faith  and  truth. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  GRAVE 

I  would  not  know  the  spot  where  Phebe  lies 
In  some  still  churchyard  ;    earth  and  sky 

and  air 
Are  full  of  her,  and  ever,  everywhere, 

I  feel  her  presence,  sweet  and  strong  and  wise. 

But  should  I  look  upon  the  silent  mound, 
The  stone,  the  flowers,  my  thoughts  would 

linger  there 

While  to  my  soul  the  voices  of  Despair 
Would  whisper  —  "  Lo,  she  lies  beneath  the 
ground  !  " 

By  others'  tears  the  sullen  sod  be  wet 

That  covers  the  dear  hands  and  eyes  and 

hair  ! 
Ah  Phebe,  tho  I  lay  no  roses  there, 

It  is  the  grave  alone  that  I  forget  ! 


61 


TO  THE  MODERN  SPIRIT 

You  say  that  old  beliefs  are  all  out-worn, 
Old  creeds  outgrown  ;  and  yet  you  cannot  show 
That  thorns  of  doubt  have  pricked  upon  your 

brow 
One    gracious    drop.     If   your   un-faith    were 

born 

Thro  travail  of  the  soul  that  left  you  shorn 
Of  mockery  ;   or  if  the  overthrow 
Of  ancient  altars  caused  your  tears  to  flow, 
Baptizing,  cleansing,  ridding  of  all  scorn 
Your  unbelief  :  —  ah,  then  it  were  a  thing 
That  men  should  honor,  reverence,  not  despise. 
But  no  !     You  care  not  if  old  truths  be  lies  ! 
You  grieve  not  that  the  vault  of  heaven  should 

ring 

With  empty  echoes  of  our  prayers  and  cries  ! 
While  sacred  temples  burn,  you  dance  and 

sing  ! 


62 


TO  A  FLYING-FISH 

Of  bird  and  naiad  you  are  born,  a  sprite 
Of  air  and  ocean,  wild  and  glad  and  free  ! 

When  white  sails  wing  me  o'er  this  warm  de 
light - 
The  southern  waste  of  lone  cerulean  sea  — 

My  heart  leaps  up  whene'er  in  riotous  flight 
You  dart  from  watery  realms  of  faery. 

An  envious  diver  hides  her  feathered  breast 
A  moment  in  the  waves,  but  you  surprise 

The  cool  green  secrets  of  the  sea  unguessed 
Of  gull  or  mortal.     Then,  in  magic  wise, 

You  change,  and  from  a  billow's  curling  crest 
A  bird,  you  sweep  into  the  startled  skies  ! 

Whene'er  the  spendthrift  moon  her  treasure 

flings 

Over  the  waters,  many  a  priceless  gem 
You  snare  within  the  meshes  of  your  wings 
That  flash  and  shimmer,  flare  and  flame  with 

them  — 

Such  emeralds,  sapphires,  diamonds  as  kings 
Have  never  worn  in  royal  diadem. 
63 


64  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

What  tender  lullabies  does  ocean  croon 

In  azure  depths  ?     Do  nymphs  and  nereids 

smile 
Upon  you  sporting  in  the  surges  strewn 

With  streaming  stars,  cleaving  your  course 

the  while 
Mid  tall  sea-flowers  that  swing  and  sway  and 

swoon 
Against  the  pillars  of  a  coral  isle  ? 

A  bright  unerring  arrow  from  the  quiver 
Of  some  mermaiden  you  are  swift  up-slung. 

I  watch  the  ocean  mirror  crack  and  shiver  — 
The    sparkling    fragments   to    the    breezes 
flung.  .  .  . 

Alas,  such  ecstasy  as  yours  forever 

Eludes  both  human  heart  and  human  tongue  ! 


THE  WINTER  WOODS 

I  love  the  sober  winter  woods  —  the  trees 

With  their  clean  trunks  and  boughs  that, 

clear  and  bare, 
Are  etched  against  the  blue,  with,  here 

and  there, 

A  nest  more  silent  for  the  memories 
Of  song  it  holds.     I  love  the  calm,  the  peace, 
That  broods  upon  the  frozen  earth  and  air. 
Summer  is  wanton,  taking  thought  nor 

care 

For  bird  or  flower,  and  giving  no  surcease 
Of  beauty  till  the  soul  is  surfeited. 
To  me  the  voice  of  one  sweet  feathered 

bard 

Who  lingers  when  the  rest  have  taken  wing, 
One  leaf  that  flames  mid  others  dry  and  dead, 
One  winter  violet,  is  more  reward 
Than  all  the  wealth  that  summer  days 
can  bring. 


65 


It  is  but  yesterday  old  Tom  Champagne 
Went  reeling  past  this  house  as  yonder  ship 
Reels  in  the  offing.     Some  three  years  ago 
He  came,  a  battered  derelict,  and  cast 
His  anchor  in  our  port.     None  ever  knew 
Whence  he  had  come  or  who  he  was  or  what 
The  name  he  bore.     He  boasted  that  his  gait  — 
A  limping  lurch  and  roll  —  was  consequent 
On  wounds  won  at  the  battle  of  Champagne. 
He  must  have  meant  a  bottle  of  champagne 
Some  wag  remarked,  and  so  the  neighbors  called 

him 

The  name  that  made  him  butt  of  many  a  jest, 
Both  for  the  battle's  and  the  bottle's  sake. 
And  yet  the  while  they  jeered  they  envied  him 
His  knowledge  of  the  whereabouts  of  each 
And  every  still  in  all  the  county  round. 
He  swore  he  knew  naught  of  them,  yet  he  knew 
Enough  to  keep  his  nose  forever  red, 
His  legs  unsteady  and  his  hands  a-tremble, 
However  dry  the  place  or  sly  the  police. 

Well,  Tom  went  lurching  to  the  country  store 
Only  last  night,  to  have  the  usual  jests 
66 


The  Passing  of  Tom  Champagne        67 

And  banter  flung  at  him.     He  stood  inane 
And  simpering  there,  with  sagging  mouth  that 

told 

The  story  of  his  sin,  with  bloated  cheeks, 
Empurpled  veins,  and  eyes  like  window-panes 
In  a  dim,  haunted  house  —  a  thing  obscene 
He  was  with  not  a  spark  of  manhood  in  him. 
Then,  suddenly,  with  a  low,  stricken  cry, 
He   fell  ...  lay    still  ...  old   Tom    Cham 
pagne  was  dead! 

And  all  the  free-flung  jests   and  jeers   were 

changed 

To  whispers  full  of  awe  and  reverence. 
Tom,  who  had  been  one  instant  past  a  creature 
To  spurn,  to  spit  upon,  was  now  become 
A  holy  thing,  and  in  the  hush  that  lay 
Upon  him  brooded  mystery  ineffable. 
The  eyes  that,  open,  had  been  all  unseeing 
Seemed,  sealed,  to  see  :     gently  the  eyelids 

closed 
On  knowledge  calm,  transcendent,  absolute. 

The  face  which,  but  a  moment  gone,  had  been 
A  crumpled  parchment  that  the  hand  of  evil 
Had  blotched  and  blotted,  now  was  changed, 

transformed 

Into  a  white  illuminated  scroll 
On  which  was  writ  a  Sign  inscrutable. 


68  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

We  gazed  awe-stricken  in  the  flickering  light 
Ringed    round    with    darkness.     And    when 

Arbuthnot, 

The  keeper  of  the  store,  brought  out  a  piece 
Of  sacking  to  throw  over  the  still  form, 
We  stayed  his  hand  and  sought  a  strip  of 

linen  — 

The  whitest,  finest,  to  be  found,  and  that 
Was  spread  upon  him,  tho  it  only  served 
To  make  more  still  the  awful  stillness  of  him. 

Well,  I  must  go.     We  bury  him  this  evening. 
Why  should  we  wait  to  give  him  to  the  arms 
Of  Death  ?     Life  made  him  subject  of  a  sneer, 
But  Death  has  won  respect  for  him  at  last. 


POINT  OF  VIEW 

When  earth  seems  dark  with  envy 

And  hate  and  greed  and  wars, 

Remember  —  to  the  distant 

Inhabitants  of  Mars 

It  flames  upon  their  vision 

A  star  among  the  stars  ! 


69 


TO  A   KING-FISHER  OR  HALCYON 

It's  very  queer  when  garbed  like  that 
In  fine  dress-suit  and  white  cravat 
To  dive  into  the  brook  ! 

I'd  think  that  such  a  bath  would  hurt 
Your  beautiful  white-bosomed  shirt 
And  yet  you  always  look 

Quite  freshly  starched.     No  bird  before 
Had  ever  such  a  pompadour 
As  you,  you  funny  imp. 

Why  dive  for  fish  when  you  have  bugs 
And  gauzy  flies  and  juicy  slugs 

And  those  delicious  shrimp  ? 

You  have  the  strangest  kind  of  note 
That  ever  came  from  feathered  throat  - 
It  is  not  song  at  all, 

But  just  a  rattle,  yet  your  true 
Devoted  wife,  as  she  should  do, 
Pretends  you're  musical. 
70 


To  a  King-Fisher  or  Halcyon          71 

And  you  repay  her  flattery 
By  treating  her  with  gallantry 
As  tho  you  thought  it  fun 

To  housekeep  with  her  by  the  stream 
In  that  lush  bank,  —  your  days  I  deem 
Are  truly  halcyon. 


COMPENSATION 

When  wild-plum  blossoms  fail  and  fall, 
The  dogwood  breaks  in  delicate  spray 
Against  the  forest-green,  and  all 
The  sweet  wood-lilies  breathe  of  May. 

When  golden  bells  of  jasmine  peal 
No  more  with  silent  song,  we  have 
The  laurel  beautiful  to  heal 
The  hurt  the  jasmine's  passing  gave. 

And  when  the  laurel's  blushes  fade 
And,  sighing,  we  would  say  —    "  Too  soon 
Does  beauty  perish  "    -  'tis  unsaid 
For  lo,  the  crimson  rose  of  June  ! 

And,  roses  lost,  the  holly  tree 
Flames  against  winter's  icy  breath. 
Thus  when  your  love  shall  pass  from  me 
May  Nature  solace  me  with  death  ! 


72 


THE  INCONSISTENT  PEDLAR 

"  Oh  who  will  buy  a  sceptre, 
Or  who  a  cast-off  crown  ? 
Who  wants  a  royal  signet-ring 
Or  an  ermine-bordered  gown  ?  " 

Down  many  a  busy  city  street 
I  hear  the  pedlar  cry 
His  dusty  wares,  but  all  in  vain, 
For  there  is  none  will  buy. 

The  sceptre,  crown  and  ring  and  gown  - 
Thus  held  of  little  worth  — 
He  sealed  up  in  a  casket 
And  he  laid  them  in  the  earth. 

"  When  this,  our  twentieth  century, 
Is  buried  in  the  past," 
He  said,  "  my  children's  children 
May  dig  these  up  at  last, 

And  then  as  curiosities 
I'm  sure  they  will  be  prized  — 
As  relics  of  a  time  before 
Mankind  was  civilized  ; 
73 


74  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

When  nations  had  to  have  their  toys 
And  all  such  silly  things 
As  thrones  and  crowns  and  ermine  gowns 
And  emperors  and  kings." 

The  pedlar  has  no  wares  to  sell  ; 
He's  old  and  bent  and  lame  ; 
But  a  light  is  in  the  beggar's  eyes  ; 
A  parchment  with  his  name 

Lies  in  the  buried  casket 

Sealed  with  the  royal  ring, 

And  he  hopes  his  children's  children 

Will  believe  he  was  a  king. 


THE  LAND  OF  UPSIDE  DOWN 

The  pleasantest  place  that  I  ever  have  known 
Is  the  magical  country  of  Upside  Down. 
I  could  sit  on  the  bank  forever  and  ever 
And  gaze  into  fairyland  down  in  the  river. 
The  hills  and  the  trees  and  the  houses  and 

meadows 
Are   peaceful   and    cool    in    the    land    of   the 

shadows, 

But  whenever  the  water  is  touched  by  the  wand 
Of  the  wind  —  good-bye  to  my  fairyland  ! 

I  wonder  whether  if  I  should  drown 

I'd  live  in  the  land  of  Upside  Down, 

With  my  head  on  the  floor  and  my  feet  on  the 

ceiling. 

That  might  be  a  very  uncomfortable  feeling  ; 
But  there's  this  advantage  —  I'd  climb  the 

trees 

By  sliding  down  them  with  perfect  ease. 
But  how  could  I  possibly  drink  from  a  cup 
I  was  holding  so  funnily  down  side  up  ? 
75 


76  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

But  this  is  the  hardest  puzzle  for  me  ;  — 

How  can  the  very  highest  tree 

In  shallow  water  be  straight  and  tall 

As  tho  there  were  no  river  bottom  at  all  ? 

And  the  sky  is  as  far  away  down  there 

As  the  real  sky  is  that  is  up  in  the  air  ! 

More      mysterious  —  much  —  than      Reality 

Town 
Is  the  land  that  I  love  of  Upside  Down. 


LOVE  IS  NOT  WHOLLY  LOST 

Love  is  not  wholly  lost  to  my  possessing, 
For  often,  when  I  rouse  in  sweet  unrest 
From  dreams  that  have  restored  to  me  the 

blessing 

Of  your  dear,  tender  form  against  me  pressed, 
My  hand,  that  sleep  stirred  to  its  old  caressing, 
Curves  to  the  delicate  roundness  of  your 
breast. 

Oh,  precious  gesture  !     In  the  fear  of  waking 
Fully  to  loss  and  loneliness  and  cold, 

I  keep  my  fingers  curved  till  —  hope  forsaking 
My  yearning  hand  —  I  know  that  in  my  hold 

Is  nothingness  ;  that,  tho  my  heart  is  breaking, 
You   still   remain   beneath   the  leaves  and 
mould. 


77 


SILENCE 

What  do  I  love  the  dearest  in  my  wood  ? 

The  holly  berries  red 

That  swing  their  censers  to  the  sun  ?    The  bed 

Of  violets  as  white  as  virgin's  snood  ? 

The  gauzy  humming-bird  ? 

The  scurrying  insect-life  when  moss  is  stirred 

By  an  inquiring  hand  ? 

The  odors  that  the  balmy  south  wind  brings  ? 

The  brown  pine-needles  carpeting  the  land 

Richer  than  any  rug  from  Samarcand  ? 

Oh  dearly,  dearly  do  I  love  these  things  ! 

And  yet,  of  all,  I  love  the  silence  best  — 

The  silence  of  the  wood  — 

That  gently  seems  to  nest 

And  nestle  in  the  over-burdened  heart  ; 

Soft  as  the  feathered  breast 

Of  yonder  thrush  that  hovers  near  her  brood  ; 

Silence  that  soothes  the  ache  and  pain  and 

smart 

Of  life's  swift  lash  laid  on  the  quivering  soul. 
It  is  a  chalice  full  of  sanctities  ; 
It  is  a  benediction  breathing  peace. 
It  is  as  calm,  as  deep, 

78 


Silence  7S 

As  cool  green  wells  of  sleep 

In  which  the  spirit  sinks  and  is  made  whole. 

And  if  from  some  bird-throat  a  sudden  rill 

Of  sound  may  flow, 

It  is  but  etched  against  the  stillness  so 

That  all  the  wood  seems  even  more  deeply  still. 

Yet  most  for  this  I  love  the  silence  best, 

That  it  is  big  with  longings  unexpressed 

And  lyric  with  unutterable  song  ; 

Astir  with  winds  and  wings 

That  ever  with  their  soundless  whisperings 

Uplift  my  heart  and  make  my  spirit  strong. 

For  silence  is  as  wide 

And  boundless  as  the  wide  and  boundless  sea  : 

It  flows  around  me  in  a  mighty  tide 

Of  vast  beatitude. 

Oh,  may  I  ever  live  upon  the  shore 

Of  its  beneficent  immensity 

That,  when  life's  clamor  grows  too  harsh  and 

rude, 

I  may  steal  forth  to  the  great  quietude  ; 
That  I  may  feel  its  healing  waters  pour 
Over  my  tired  soul  and  wash  it  clean 
Of  trivial  things  and  mean  ! 
And  thus  it  is  the  silence  of  the  wood, 
The  silence  of  renewal  and  of  rest, 
That  I  love  best  ; 
Silence  that  is  to-day  enfolding  me 
And  in  its  bosom  holds  eternity  ! 


DISGUISES 

I  saw  a  lissome  form  that  sped 

As  swift  as  flame  thro  field  and  wood, 

And  whither  her  light  footsteps  led 

Led  the  desire  within  my  blood, 

Until  upon  a  distant  hill 

Weary  she  stood  to  wait  my  will. 


>  y°u  are  mine  at  last  !  "     I  cried  : 
"I've  followed  you  o'er  moor  and  lea 
And  I  have  won  you  for  my  bride." 
Slowly  she  turned  her  face  to  me  :  — 
Alas,  not  Joy  but  Grief  I  pressed 
With  rapture  to  my  eager  breast. 

And  when  one  came  in  mantle  clad 
Of  sober  grey  with  veiled  face, 
I  knew  not  that  her  eyes  were  glad 
And  turned  me  cold  from  her  embrace  : 
Too  late  the  sudden  moonlight  shone 
Revealing  Joy  —  and  she  was  gone  ! 

Thus  when  upon  some  night  of  gloom 
And  mist,  I  hear  upon  my  door 
A  knock,  and  see  a  figure  loom 
In  Death's  habiliments  before 
My  fading  eyes,  oh  may  it  be 
Life's  face,  not  Death's,  that  turns  to  me  ! 
80 


SO,   IT  HAS  COME  .  .  . 

So,  it  has  come  —  this  horror  that  shall  gnaw 
In  cruel  hunger  my  defenceless  breast, 
The  home  of  all  my  tenderness  where  nest 
My  dearest  hopes  and  loves.     The  tooth  and 

claw 

Of  agony  shall  rend  me  and  shall  draw 
My  courage  drop  by  drop,  till,  all  possessed 
Of  fear,  my  soul  shall  be  at  last  the  jest, 
The    sport,    of    pain.  ...     No  !     No  !    Not 

that  !     I  saw 

For  one  black  moment,  with  a  coward's  eye, 
Only  defeat.     My  soul  shall  never  lie 
Cringing  to  flesh  —  the  soul  that  I  inherit 
From  dauntless  thousands  that  have  dared  to 

die! 

I  summon  all  the  legions  of  my  spirit 
To  march  with  me  to  death  and  victory  ! 


81 


TO   A   GIRL   OF   THE   STREETS   WHO 
BEFRIENDED  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

(Finding  the  poet  in  dire  distress,  she  gave  him  food  and 
theUer  and  tender  care,  then  vanished  out  of  his  life,  leaving 
no  trace.  He  celebrates  her  in  "  Sister  Songs") 

Frail  flower  and  pale  and  pitiful 
That  any  passer-by  might  cull 
Out  of  the  London  dust,  and  wear 
A  fleeting  moment  if  he  found  it  fair, 
Then  with  indifferent,  careless  gesture  fling 
Forth  to  the  wind  to  be  blown  withering 
Thro  noisome  ways  where  never  flash  of  wing 
Is  seen  or  blue  of  sky  or  green  of  spring, 
And  night  lurks  ever  in  the  baleful  air  :  — 

Poor    child  !      Poor    lost    one  !  —  Lovingest, 

tender  thing 

He  called  you  whom  you  found  so  sore  be-sted 
And  succored,  helped  and  healed  ; 
For  whom  you  broke  your  scanty,  shameful 

bread, 

Knowing  but  this  —  that  he  had  suffered  wrong 
And  that  he  seemed  unloved,  uncomforted, 
Needing  your  ministering. 
82 


To  a  Girl  Who  Befriended  Francis  Thompson   83 

And  all  the  while  a  rich  red  rose  of  song 
Lay  on  his  breast  beneath  his  rags  concealed. 

Did  some  sweet  subtle  perfume  of  it,  borne 
Upon  you  keeping  vigil,  serve  to  start 
The  tears  of  wistful  wonder  in  your  eyes, 
The  throb  of  understanding  in  your  heart  ? 
Whence  was  the  knowledge  that  could  make 

you  wise 

To  see  the  rose  was  his  and  yours  the  thorn  ? 
Did  sudden  light  from  some  revealing  star 
Shine  on  his  sleeping  brow, 
Stabbing  your  brain  with  its  keen  scimitar 
To  realization  full  of  pain  and  woe  ? 
Mayhap  he  muttered  half -remembered  prayers 
Dreaming  and  fevered  and  you  heard,  and  knew 
You  entertained  an  angel  unawares. 
Howe'er  you  saw  the  truth,  you  too  were  true. 

You  too  were  true  and  so  you  would  not  stay. 
Your  farewell  silenced  on  a  stricken  tongue, 
Dumbly  you  crept  away, 
Leaving  the  singer  to  his  lonely  song. 
Whatever  dark  unhallowed  paths  of  sin 
Your  weary  feet  since  then  have  wandered  in, 
His  song  has  made  you  pure  and  you  are 

shriven. 

He  places  you,  a  flower, 
Again  in  the  bright  coronal  of  spring, 


84  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

No  more  to  be  blown  wilted  thro  the  street, 

On  dusty,  sullen  breezes  tossed  and  driven, 

Worn  for  a  passing  hour, 

Then  trampled  beneath  hurrying,  pitiless  feet  ; 

But  evermore  to  bloom  unwithering 

In  virgin  freshness  beautiful  and  sweet. 


TO  A  HOLLY  TREE 

I  thought  these  frozen  woods  were  grey  and 

quiet  — 

So  bare  of  beauty  that  the  heart  would  find 
Within  them  solace,  rest  and  sanctuary  ; 
But  here  behold  you  standing  in  a  riot 
Of  startling  and  unsympathetic  red, 
As  tho  the  magic  wand 
Of  a  tormenting  fairy 

Had  summoned  you  from  some  far  tropic  land 
To  flare  and  flame 
Amid  the  ashes  of  the  winter's  dead 
Before  my  weary  and  reluctant  eyes  ! 
I  am  too  tired  to  bear  your  loveliness  : 
Then  why  distract  my  mind 
With  restless  thought  I  fain  had  left  behind 
In  the  uneasy  world  ?    Have  you  no  shame 
That  you  in  wanton  wise 
Your  clamorous,  insistent  beauty  press 
Upon  my  sight  ?  .  .  .     Ah,  well,  another  time 
I  shall  find  rest  —  in  other  land  and  clime 
Mayhap,  not  here  alas,  for  beauty  here 
In  March  —  June  —  April,  is  too  penetrant, 
Too  poignant  for  the  heart  to  gain  release. 
85 


86  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

And  now  December,  that  I  thought  was  sere 
And  dun  and  drab,  with  all  her  trees  in  rags, 
Produces  you,  disturber  of  the  peace  !  .  .  . 
You  conquer  !     See  !     I  yield  me  to  delight 
In  your  triumphant  beauty  burning  bright  ! 
All  thoughts  of  rest  avaunt  ! 
The  banners  —  courage,  hope  and  faith,  you 

flaunt 

In  splendid  scarlet  challenge  to  despair. 
Then  let  my  spirit  fling  out  all  its  flags 
To  stream  with  yours  upon  the  inspired  air  ! 


MY  INSTANT 

Because  thro  twenty  times  ten  million  years 
The  earth  has  hung  in  starry  space,  yet  I 
Have  but  an  hour  wherein  to  live  and  die  — 
An  instant  only,  shall  I  dim  with  tears 
My  glimpse  of  earth  ?     Shall  hesitations,  fears 
And  doubts  confound  me,  or  despair  defy  ? 
No  !     Rather  shall  my  voice  be  lifted  high 
In  thankfulness  that  all  of  time's  arrears 
Are  paid  me  in  the  instant  that  gives  sun 
And  moon  to  me,  that  makes  the  wild  winds 

mine 

To  ride  upon.     I  am  a  part  of  thee  — 
Spirit  of  Beauty,  spirit  of  Splendor,  one 

In   flower   and   flame  !      A   moment   I   am 

thine  :  — 
Could  all  eternity  give  more  to  me  ? 


87 


UNREALITY 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  a  willow, 
The  daughter  of  earth  and  of  air, 
Is  wooed  by  the  wind's  caresses 
And  the  sun  has  found  her  fair. 

But  remote  in  the  clear  cool  water 
From  the  kiss  of  the  wind  or  the  sun, 
Elusive,  her  sister  of  shadows 
Is  chaste  as  a  cloistered  nun. 

Tender  the  shade  that  enfolds  her, 
Limpid  the  light  and  serene  :  — 
A  willow  in  shimmering  water 
Is  green  as  no  other  is  green. 

The  tree  in  the  river  is  silent, 
The  bird-songs  all  unsung, 
But  sweet  to  the  heart  is  the  music 
That  never  may  find  a  tongue. 

Oh,  lovely  the  shadowy  image 

In  the  liquid  dusk  of  the  stream  — 

Unreality  mystic,  enchanting, 

With  the  lure  of  desire  and  of  dream  ! 

88 


A  STUDY  IN  CONTRASTS 

(Extracts  from  the  Diaries  of  a  Country  Woman  and  a  City 
Woman.) 

(City  Woman) 
The  First  of  February. 

Snow  and  ice 

Are  holding  all  the  city  in  a  vice 
Of  cursed  quiet  at  the  season's  height. 
No  matinee  !    No  tea  !    No  bridge  tonight  ! 
And  this  the  sunny  South  ! 

(Country  Woman) 

The  snow  and  hail 

Induced  my  trees  last  night  to  take  the  veil. 
With  reverent  heads  they  stand  as  tho  they 

were 

A  sainted  congregation  bowed  in  prayer. 
I  love  this  nunnery,  with  the  winter  hush 
Upon  it  ! 


(City  Woman) 
Fifth  of  February. 

This  slush 

Is  so  unhealthy  !    Delicate  Annette 
Has   been   house-bound  for  days.     How  she 
does  fret  ! 

89 


90  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

(Country  Woman) 

I  believe  the  snow  is  sent  like  Santa  Claus 
Just  for  the  children.     It  has  been  the  cause 
Today  of  such  a  frolic  !     We've  been  shaking 
The  trees  to  save  their  laden  boughs  from 

breaking, 

And  many  a  merry  snow-storm  of  our  making 
Has  fallen  on  an  unsuspicious  head. 
The  children  came  in  tingling,  rosy-red. 


(City  Woman) 
March  Fifth. 

I  took  Annette  to  see  a  show  :  — 
The  child  must  be  amused,  and  so  we  go 
To  "  movies,"  tho  "  soul  mates  "  and  soulful 

kisses 

Are  all  too  educational,  I  know, 
For  little  girls  of  eight.     I  hope  she  misses 
At  such  a  picture  hah*  the  meaning  of  it. 

(Country  Woman) 

Arbutus  !  I'm  so  glad  my  children  love  it  ! 
All  six  of  them  and  I  had  searched  together 
The  morning  long,  because  we  thought  this 

weather 
Might  coax  it  out.     We  found  some,  shy  and 

pink, 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  91 

In  the  dead  leaves.    What  could  I  do  but  sink 
Down  on  the  earth  (tho  my  own  secret  this) 
And  touch  the  dear  wee  blossoms  with  a  kiss  ? 


(City  Woman) 

March  Tenth. 

The  spring  has  come  !      Gwen 

Vanderloo 

Appeared  in  a  straw  hat  —  a  fine  one  too, 
With  a  real  bird  of  Paradise.     I'm  weary 
Of  winter  clothes,  they  look  so  drab  and  dreary  ! 
I'm  glad  the  spring  has  come. 

(Country  Woman) 

The  spring  !     The  spring  ! 
I  knew  it  by  the  sudden  quickening 
Of  one  bright  bluebird's  long-expectant  wing  : 
Besides,  I  asked  him,  and  his  answer  duly 
Came  with  the  sweet  assurance  —   "  Tru-ly  ! 
Tru-ly  !  " 


(City  Woman) 
April  the  First. 

It's  raining.     What  a  pity  ! 
I  can't  go  shopping  in  this  deluged  city. 
I  must  sit  moping  here  until  it  clears. 


92  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

(Country  Woman) 

When  April,  the  light-hearted,  sheds  her  tears 
They  seem  like  laughter  !     I  have  watched  all 

day 

The  long  bright  busy  needles  of  the  rain 
Stitching  in  Nature's  wide-spread  counterpane 
Patterns  of  flowers  to  deck  the  bed  of  May. 
I  think  these  April  showers  wash  every  stain 
Of  age  from  Earth,  making  her  young  again. 


(City  Woman) 

May  the  Fifteenth. 

Gwen  Vanderloo  is  dead  ! 
She  lived  too  hard  and  fast,  the  doctors  said. 
The  trouble  was  exhaustion.     What  a  whirl 
This  life  is  !     Young  and  care-free  as  a  girl, 
She's  gone  !    The  funeral  is  to-day.     I'll  send 
A  wreath  of  lilies,  but  I  must  attend 
Two  meetings  first,  and  I'll  invite  a  friend 
To  lunch  to  cheer  me  up.     I  must  not  waste 
A  single  minute,  I  am  in  such  haste  ! 
They'll  put  Gwen  in  the  city  cemetery  : 
It's  bare  and  cold,  but  fashionable  —  very. 
I  do  hope  nobody  will  tell  Annette 
That  Gwen  is  dead,  she  fears  death  so,  the 
pet  ! 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  93 

(Country  Woman) 

Our  kind  old  neighbor,  Ellen  Jones,  is  dead. 
Why  grieve  ?     Or  why  regret  ?     Her  life  was 

led 

In  useful  leisure  and  in  busy  peace 
Among   her   flowers,    beneath   her   sheltering 

trees. 

I  took  the  children,  wishing  them  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  tender  death  can  be. 
Cedars  may  mourn,  but  let  the  holly  wave 
Its  happy  scarlet  flags  above  her  grave  ! 


TO  A  HERMIT  THRUSH 

Great  lyricist,  you  sing  of  vanished  ships 
Whose  spirits  haunt  the  mist-enshrouded  dune, 
Or  of  long-dead,  forgotten  lovers'  lips 
That  drank  their  draughts  of  joy  beneath  the 
moon; 

Of  Cleopatra's  form,  of  Helen's  face, 

Of  Caesar's  fame  :      Egypt  and  Greece  and 

Rome 

You  know  not,  but  all  glory  and  all  grace 
Within  your  cosmic  strains  are  gathered  home. 

And  I  who  feel  within  my  aching  breast 
Your  own  wild,  sweet  necessity  to  sing  — 
When  clouds,  rose-petalled,  blossom  in  the  west 
Or  when  arbutus  buds  are  pink  with  spring, 

I  must  delay  and  grope  for  speech,  with  art 
Striving  —  in  vain  —  to  capture  ecstasy  ; 
While  unrestrained  you  pour  your  lyric  heart  — 
Your  lyric  soul  itself  —  upon  the  sky, 

So  clearly  soars  your  pure,  celestial  song 
Above  poor  human  need  of  stammering  words. 
Ah,  that  is  poetry  !     Speech  does  beauty  wrong. 
I  think  there  are  no  poets  save  the  birds. 
94 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD 

I  swing  today  on  Gallows  Hill 
Because  one  maid  was  fair. 
Because  her  teeth  were  white  as  milk, 
Because  her  skin  was  smooth  as  silk, 
I  swing  today  on  Gallows  Hill 
With  none  to  heed  or  care. 

Why  did  she  stand  at  the  turn  of  the  road 
That  forked  to  east  and  west  ? 
"  I  seek  the  way  to  the  Temple  of  Fame," 
I  said.     She  smiled  with  a  mouth  like  flame 
As  she  pointed  the  way  to  Gallows  Hill. 
A  curse  on  the  curve  of  her  breast  ! 

To  west,  to  east,  and  the  choice  must  be 

Forever,  for  good  or  ill. 

Now  answer  me,  God,  if  you  can,  if  you  dare, 

And  answer  me,  man,  is  it  fair,  is  it  fair, 

Because  one  maid  had  a  mouth  like  flame, 

Because  her  skin  was  white  as  milk, 

Because  her  hair  was  fine  as  silk, 

That  I  who  was  seeking  the  Temple  of  Fame 

Should  swing  on  Gallows  Hill  ? 


95 


WHY  DO  YOU  IDLE? 

"  Why  do  you  idle  by  a  woodland  stream 
Singing  alone,  aloof,  while  nations  lie 
Stricken  and  prostrate  ?     Think  you  that  the 

gleam 
Of  moon  or  star  will  warm  them  ?    Would  you 

try 

To  nourish  starving  men  with  melody  ?  " 
Thus  they  who  plow  the  furrow  and  sew  the 

seam 
Challenge  my  peace.     "  We  summon  you," 

they  cry, 
"  To    labor    with    us.     Dreamer,     cease    to 

dream  !  " 

Scorn  me  not,  brothers  !     Know  that  while 

you  spin 

The  flax  to  cover  shivering  flesh,  I  weave 
Fabric  of  dreams  to  clothe  the  soul  within. 
Toiling  at  plow  and  harrow  you  relieve 
The  hunger  of  the  body.     I,  apart, 
Seek  with  my  song  to  feed  the  famished  heart. 


96 


RENAISSANCE 

Asleep  lay  lovely  Poesy 

Upon  a  lilied  bed  : 

Pale  lilies  on  her  heart  had  she, 

Pale  lilies  at  her  head, 

And  lily-white  her  drapery 

Upon  the  sward  was  spread. 

As  chill  her  breast  as  marble,  deep 
Her  slumber  as  a  swoon  ; 
And  still  the  virgin  lilies  keep 
Their  watch  from  noon  to  noon. 
Stifled  with  fragrance  she  must  sleep, 
Tho  sun  may  shine  or  moon. 

Life  waked  and  wooed  her  in  the  glade 
"  Behold  the  gifts  I  bring  ! 
Here  is  a  homespun  gown,"  he  said, 
"  And  here  a  wedding-ring 
Wrought  out  of  iron  that  was  made 
Where  forge-fires  leap  and  sing." 

She  laid  her  draperies  aside, 
She  flung  her  lilies  down, 


97 


98  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

And  holding  high  her  head  in  pride 
She  donned  the  ring  and  gown. 
With  Life  she  passed,  his  wedded  bride, 
Eager  from  town  to  town. 

He  showed  her  beauty  in  the  dust 

Where  men  lay  grovelling  ; 

In  crooked  hands  that  begged  a  crust, 

As  in  a  bluebird's  wing  ; 

He  taught  her  that  from  hate  and  lust 

White  flowers  of  truth  might  spring. 

And  now  she  walks  mid  toil  and  strife  — 

WTiom  lilies  lulled  to  rest. 

Oh,  beautiful  she  is  as  wife 

In  humble  homespun  dressed 

As  evermore  she  follows  Life, 

Red  roses  on  her  breast. 


MASKS 

We  sat  before  our  hearth-fire,  you  and  I, 
Secure  behind  our  guardian  bolts  and  bars 
From  lonely  winds,  from  darkness,  from  the  cry 
Of  owls  and  the  cold  shining  of  the  stars. 

I   thought  :  —  without   is   mystery,   vastness, 

stark, 

Unknowable  ;  within,  your  form  and  face. 
I  hold  you  known  against  the  unknown  dark, 
My  only  hostage  against  time  and  space. 

Let  night  flow  round  me  !     I  am  unafraid  : 
You  give  me  all  the  certainty  I  ask. 
I  turned  to  you.     A  gleam  of  firelight  played 
Upon  your  face  and  lo,  you  wore  a  mask  ! 

"  What  !     You  ?     Even  you  ?  "  I  cried,  "  Not 

yours  that  brow, 
Those  lips  that  I  have  loved  ?     Through  all 

the  years 

You  have  looked  at  me,  as  you  are  looking  now, 
With   eyes   whose   painted   laughter,   painted 

tears, 

99 


100  The  Waggon  and  the  Star 

Have   mocked   me  !     I   will   tear   that   smile 

away." 

In  vain  my  trembling  hands  attempt  the  task. 
You  point  me  to  the  mirror.     I  obey 
And  see  that  on  my  face  I  wear  a  mask. 


WHY  ARE  THE  DEAD  NOT  DEAD? 

Why  are  the  dead  not  dead  indeed  who  crowd 

Upon  me,  thus  insistent  in  demands 

On  my  remembrance  ?    Why  are  pale,  cold 

hands 

Thrust  from  enfolding  mist  as  from  a  shroud 
To  clutch  my  heart  ?     In  moon  and  fire  and 

cloud 

I  see  lost  faces  and  on  desolate  sands 
I  hear  long-silent  footfalls.     To  far  lands 
They  follow  —  follow  still.     I  am  allowed 
No  respite  —  none  —  no  ease  from  memory's 

sadness. 
You  dead,  you  loved  me  once,  then  grant  me 

one  — 

Only  one  hour  —  of  sheer  unshadowed  glad 
ness, 

One  golden  hour  of  laughter  in  the  sun 
Out  of  a  heart  whence  thoughts  of  you  are 

sped.  .  .  . 
Then  come  to  me  again,  beloved  dead. 


101 


DEAR,  DO  I  HOPE 

Dear,  do  I  hope  to  find  you  far  beyond 

The  dawn  of  day,  beyond  the  reach  of  years, 

Removed  from  human  laughter,  human  tears  ? 

Will  you  in  that  diviner  air  respond 

To  love  of  mine  ?     Can  some  ethereal  bond 

Endear  us  as  the  bond  of  flesh  endears  ? 

I  do  not  know.     My  heart  is  filled  with  fears, 

I  have  so  loved  the  foolish  ways  and  fond 

Of  daily  living  ;  loved  your  hands  and  eyes, 

Your  hair  and  the  deep  solace  of  your  breast. 

If   these   were   lost,   then   what   were   loving 

worth  ? 

My  lips  on  yours,  I  almost  hope  the  skies 
Beyond  our  sky  will  yield  us  only  rest, 
Lest  heaven  be  cold  to  this,  our  heaven  on 

earth ! 


102 


THE  VASE 

I  fain  would  have  my  verse  a  vase 

Clear  as  a  Cyprian  sky, 
With  fair  Diana  of  the  chase, 
With  nymphs  and  fauns  of  sylvan  grace, 
Winding  forever  round  its  base 

Of  veined  porphyry. 

And  I  would  pour  my  thoughts  like  wine 

Within  the  vase,  and  they 
With  opalescent  light  should  shine 
Of  tranquil  seas  that  crystalline 
Hold  the  irradiance  divine 

Of  an  eternal  day. 

Alas  for  this,  my  vase  !     It  seems 

A  thing  with  failure  fraught. 
It  can  to  my  desires  and  dreams 
Impart  no  iridescent  gleams  ; 
No  lucent  splendor  from  it  streams  ; 

Of  clay  my  vase  is  wrought. 


103 


- 

L  ".';.;-•'     to    star. 


A    000  923  695     1 


FS 


